The second week wore away and Jack came, but by that time the image of the girl had taken such aloofness of position in Harold's mind that he dared not ask about her, even of his loyal chum.
At last she came again, and when she had finished singing Not half has ever been told, some prisoner started hand clapping, and a volley of applause made the cells resound.

The girl started in dismay, and then, as she understood the meaning of this noise, a beautiful flush swept over her face and she shrank swiftly into shadow.
But a man from an upper cell bawled: "Sing The Voice, miss! sing The Voice!" The leader of the band said: "Sing for them, Miss Yardwell." Again she sang If I were a Voice, and out of the cells the prisoners crept, one by one, and at last Harold.

She did not see him till she had finished the last verse, and then he stood so close to her he could have touched her, and his solemn dark eyes burned so strangely into her face that she shrank away from him in awe and terror.

She knew him--no one else but the minister's son could be so handsome and so refined of feature.
"You're that voice, miss," one of the men called out.
"That's right," replied the others in chorus.
The girl was abashed, but the belief that she was leading these sinners to a merciful Saviour exalted her and she sang again.

Harold crept as near as he could--so near he could see her large gray eyes, into which the light fell as into a mountain lake.